The First 'Tame' Woldblood
by ringtailpossum
Summary: <html><head></head>The struggle of hiding their identities is not something just modern wolfbloods have to deal with. Wolfbloods from long ago, in the time of Middle Earth, also feared being hunted and hated, until one young wolfblood of legends, Rowan, changed this. This is the true tale of this hero of legend. Please read the 'foreword' inside for full summary.</html>
1. Prologue

**_Author's Note_**

_Hi, I'm ringtailpossum and this is my second fanfiction. I am sorry that I am starting another story while 'A Star Trapped in Heaven' is not finished. I do plan on finishing it, but unfortunately the computer that I was writing it on has now got a broken keyboard, so I am using another computer to write this one. _

_This is a crossover between Wolfblood and Lord of the Rings. Frankly, I am disappointed there aren't more of these. To let you know, this story follows the events of Lord of the Rings and I am using my own wolfblood characters, not Maddy or Rhydian. It is more of a history of wolfbloods in Middle Earth. Also, it is not a romance. In any shape or form. There may be some slight pairing at the end with my own characters, but this is an adventure/ action story. My goal is to create a really believable character. I am planning to making this a long story, but I am kind of inconsistent with updating. Sorry._

_I hope you enjoy my story!_

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><p><strong>Foreword<strong>

A legend is known among wolfbloods. A legend so old and fanciful that many feel that any truth in it has been lost to time. A legend older than the recollection of humans, from the time when many strange and wonderful creatures roamed the land, from Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, Wargs, Wizards, Hobbits, Ents and of course, wolfbloods. The legend goes that in a time wolfbloods thrived yet sill lived in fear of other races becoming aware of their existence, a brave wolfblood, Rowan Firstalpha rose up. He bridged the void between wolfbloods and others, becoming the alpha of the first pack to live among Men and other races. The first 'tame' pack, some would say, but truly the bravest pack as they shared strength and knowledge, and received much in return. In his honour, 'tame' packs are even now still called a 'Rowanspack'.

This tale, however, is not a recount of the well-known and largely exaggerated legend. This tale is the true story of Rowan, son of Ronir, barely more than a cub when he found himself with no choice but to become an outcast and a traitor, not a majestic alpha leading all wolfbloods to a brighter life. Trapped in the middle of a war, desperately trying to protect his sister, he was plagued with the constant fear that is familiar to modern wolfbloods: The fear of his identity being discovered.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

It was a cold night. Wind howled around the cloaked figure and attempted to tear away his cloak, long grey beard, hat and any other vaguely loose item. The bitter cold dug into the hunched shape, cutting right through his layers of clothing. It was a bad night to visit the wolfblood clans and he could smell rain creeping on the horizon, moving swiftly over the land.

Gandalf leaned against his staff, bracing himself from the biting cold. No, it was not a good night to be visiting the wolf clans, he observed, looking towards the sky to see the glint of the full moon peeking through the dense cloud cover. He would not have come unless it had been extremely urgent. A war was coming. He would need every ally he could muster.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

It had only been a month. The best month of his entire life, Rowan thought as he bounded over roots and stones and dodged agilely between the trees with a graceful unfaltering stride. His floppy black hair streamed out behind him and his scabbard, with a sword carefully stowed inside, bounced rhythmically against his back. His arms pumped hard as he propelled himself through the woodland.

Last night had been the most amazing night. It was his first full moon night away from the pack and it was the best full moon experience, even though it was only his second transformation. The exhilarating freedom was incredible and he finally felt happy for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Rowan paused to breath in the fresh air deeply, a wide grin across his face as he reflected on how much his life had improved since he became a lone wolf.

Well not completely a lone wolf, he corrected himself. The presence of Myra made him all the gladder. His sister was still a cub of only seven summers, but she did keep the shadow of loneliness away and brighten his days. She was his pack now. Rowan had known the risk of bringing her when he was fleeing the pack. As a small child, not able to transform she would hinder him and possibly lead to being caught by the alphas. Even after that he had known that if they were to escape she would still be difficult to manage and he would need to care for her and protect her. Looking back now, he was relieved to have made the right choice. He loved the beautiful smile on her face when she saw him rather than the haunting defeated expression she had worn in earlier years. He was eternally joyed that she would be able to grow up away from the pack and not suffer the same torment he had endured for sixteen years.

Now, however, Rowan realised he should be searching for his little sister. This new life had any benefits, one being the opportunity to play games, which neither of them had ever done before. They had not learned any games while in the pack, but they had begun inventing games since escaping. Currently they were playing a game which they had named 'Hunting'. The aim was to give the other a head start and then track them down. Myra had sprinted away about five minutes ago so Rowan raised his head, his nose twitching as he searched for her scent.

This sort of game would have concerned him if he had not known the area, because of course when Myra was unattended she could encounter orcs or other foul creatures. Even more dangerous would it be if she were to be discovered by other folk as Rowan would not be able to transform to protect her. Even though he had forsaken the clans and his pack, the first and most crucial law of his people was still seared into his mind: Never allow any other race to become aware of our existence.

That was why he had stolen the sword, but he knew he was skilled enough or comfortable with it. It was really more for appearances than anything, though he intended to practise more with it.

Fortunately, Rowan and Myra had been in the area for a month and had scouted throughout the woodland area. It was uninhabited for miles around and he had enforced strict boundaries that she was not to go out of without him. There were paths for travellers, but he had not seen, heard or smelt a single one in the time they had been there. The paths were not well used and overgrown in some areas. Rowan was quite confident that Myra would not come across travellers on the mostly abandoned paths between the Misty Mountains and the forest of Lorien. Even more confident was he is his own abilities to smell and hear the approach of any strangers, thus easily avoiding them.

Indeed he would have noticed the party of eight taking those half-forgotten paths, if the gentle breeze had been blowing the right way.

A sharp but distant squeal of fear made Rowan freeze in place, just as the wind changed direction and a gust brought him a scent he feared – Men. He felt his blood run icy cold as panic flooded his body. Wasting no time, he sprinted forward towards the distressed cry of his sister and the scent, now mingled with that of Elf and Dwarf and something strange that he had not come across before. Heart pounding in his chest twice as fast as his feet pounding on the earth, Rowan flew through the trees.

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><p>The grief of losing Gandalf in Moria had hung over the fellowship like a mournful grey cloud. Unfortunately the real weather did not seem to reciprocate this feeling as the sun shone cheerfully in as it slowly sunk into the horizon, painting the sky in a marvellous array of colours. Aragorn had pushed the group hard all day and they were weary, both physically and emotionally. Finally he called to stop for the night. There was relief from the travellers as they set their packs down and began making camp. The still grieving hobbits went about collecting firewood silently.<p>

A piercing squeal broke the silence and caused seven heads to simultaneously snap upwards. A small girl had come running out of the surrounding trees and run straight into Boromir who had reached out instinctively to grab her by the wrist, causing a cry of panic and pain from her.

She was young, probably only seven or eight years old, thought Aragorn, although she was quite skinny as though she had not often had much to eat in her short life. Her clothing was quite plain, peasant clothing; dull worn colours that were a bit baggy, but well-fitting enough for sufficient mobility. Her clothes, however seemed more appropriate for a young peasant boy than a girl as she wore breeches and a tunic. Her long tangled brown hair was filthy and hardly neat. The terror on her face was evident as she looked up at Boromir while struggling to free her wrist from his grasp.

"Boromir, let her go," Aragorn called across the campsite in a commanding tone as he strode towards the Gondor man and the terrified child.

"What if she is a spy? Some devilish trick of the enemy?" said Boromir. While an honourable man, he was constantly suspicious. Though, thought Aragorn as he paused, considering Boromir's words, he was hardly at fault for being wary after the horrors the company had endured in the mines of Moria.

"She is but a child. Release her," said Legolas. He was had spoken sparingly throughout the journey and had hardly uttered at word since the departure from the mines. Aragorn knew what had compelled the archer speak though. Elves cherished children dearly, even those who were not elflings because young elves were very rare.

"We should help her," continued Legolas as he approached the girl and knelt next to her. Boromir maintained his grip on her arm and as the elf approached she froze in place, staring with wide fearful eyes at Legolas as he knelt. "What is your name, little one?"

Aragorn had overcome his hesitation and now walked up behind Boromir and placed his hand on his shoulder.

"I do not believe we have anything to fear from this child."

Boromir's shoulders relaxed and he turned to respond. He was cut off by a sudden sound in the trees. All around the campsite looked up as a boy now charged into the clearing. He was possibly fifteen or sixteen years old, though he bore the same malnourished look as the girl. His clothes were also plain and ill-fitting and looked as if his outfit had been thrown together by an assortment of stolen garments. The boy stood in a fighting stance and drew a strange-looking sword from a sheath strapped to his back in a fluid motion. It was shorter than a regular sword and made of a metal that seemed almost pure white. The blade began narrow at the hilt before widening smoothly in the middle and tapering to a point.

"Let her go," he stated calmly, though Aragorn detected a slight quaver on his voice. His eyes were focused intensely on Boromir who still held the young girl. Aragorn also noticed the lad's whitening knuckles on the hilt of his odd sword, another sign that he is trying to act brave thought the ranger. Aragorn frowned slightly as he thought he glimpsed a strange pattern, like black ink lines, on the boy's hand, but when he looked again he saw nothing but the tightening grip on the sword.

"I said, let her go!" said the boy, anger and fear in his voice more evident with the rising volume.

Legolas stood, facing the boy, "And what do you want her for? Are you not the one she was running from, which caused her to stumble upon us?"

"No! She is my sister," said the boy. Panic crept onto his face as he realised that the young girl might not be released.

"Ro!" cried the little girl. She managed to slip her small hand from Boromir's whose grip had loosened with shock from the appearance of the boy. She scurried over to him and hugged his leg tightly. The boy did not move, but he did relax visibly. He maintained his stance and his eyes continued to flicker over each member of the fellowship, searching for any threat of attack.

Aragorn stepped forward, "You do not have anything to fear from us. Lower your sword and join us. Tell us your tale and perhaps we can help you."

The boy started back, clearly surprised by such a friendly invitation.

"I, uh, we will not trouble you."

"Nonsense, lad," said Gimli, "We cannot leave two children wandering the woods alone."

"Uh…" the boy's eyes flickered left and right, almost as if searching for an escape. "In that case, we would be, um, grateful to join you for this evening."

The boy slowly put his sword away, still looking for any danger, put a protective arm around his young sister and walked over to join the campsite.


End file.
